A Home For Brick
by fantasticly-anonymous
Summary: So, Anchorman 2 happened and life keeps ticking forward for our heroes. Just, not in ways that any of them saw coming. But, thankfully, in ways that it turns out, they needed. After all, for the Anchorman crew, life is just ridiculous.
1. The Story So Far

**This was written for a friend's birthday, by request of said wonderful, beautiful birthday friend.  
I hope you're happy with yourself! ;D I know I am!**

**P.S. Happy Birthday!**

Ron Burgundy and Veronica Corningstone realized that their life together as a married couple had come to its natural end. They'd overcome their differences and made up like adults, their son was happily growing older, Veronica had met a wonderful man with psychic powers who she loved, and, after some soul-searching, so had Ron Burgundy.  
Well, he'd technically already known the man, and said man did not have psychic powers, but he _did_ love him. So at least that part was accurate.

Yep. Weird how life works out sometimes. The love of your life turns out to have another love of her life, and it turns out one of your best friends was the second love of your life. It had just taken Ron until then to realize it.

Champ on the other hand, had known it from the day they'd met. He'd told Ron so over a delicious cooked duck he claimed to have fished out of the local pond after a child with a surprisingly strong arm had chucked one too many rocks at it.  
Ron was just happy that Champ hadn't said so _before_ they'd started eating. Otherwise he'd have never been able to look that sad, little, delicious water fowl in the honey glazed face and force himself to eat it.

Man did Champ know how to cook. But Ron figured that stood to reason, considering the relatively successful restaurant that Champ had run for a number of years. And the very low percentage of poor reviews said restaurant had garnered.  
Very few of which on account of the food, if he was being honest.

So, a few more heavenly roast, 'acquired' ducks down the road and Champ had made the tentative invitation for Ron to give up the lease on his small apartment and come and move in with him in his nice little home in the suburbs. The one that he had purchased with the practically unscrupulous sums of money his restaurant had made him.

To that, all Ron _could_ have said was yes. Not because he was hurting for money, nor out of a feeling of beholdenness, but because it had been the right time for it. So they borrowed a truck, packed up everything that Ron cared about, and quickly spread it all about Champs modest mid century house.

After that, it was a matter of weeks, if not days, before the place was feeling like home.  
Then, in no time they were living together as if they always had; schedules and routines meshed to the point that one practically never tripped up the other. More like _complimented_, weirdly enough.

Before half a year had passed, the award winning newscaster and the raucously successful sportscaster had grown completely comfortable in their homey home. Almost... complacent, even. So used to their closeness now that it was hard for them to imagine how things had worked before Ron had said, 'Sure I'll eat your five star, candle lit, home cooked meal, Champ. It would be extremely rude of me _not_ to!'

This place of blissful domesticity is where our story begins.


	2. Ron And Champ

**Let's see what a nearly average morning looks like for our favorite anchorman and sportscaster!**

"Don't you think it'd be nice, Ron? A little you or me running around the house; turning on and off the tv all hours? Rearranging our records to be alphabetized by color? Waking us up in the middle of the night with plaintive cries for attention?" Champ said as he set his steaming plate full of eggs on their kitchen island and pulled up a stool.

"Champ, I'm pretty sure that whatever you were just describing isn't a child. Sounds more like a poltergeist, honestly." The daydreamy look on Champ's face did nothing to assuage Burgundy's misgivings at the description.

"But, just think of the amazing things we could do with that much projectile vomit! The pranks we could play on visitors," Champ said with as much verve as he could squeeze out.

"I'm pretty sure that if people knew we were _that_ haunted, we wouldn't be able to _lure_ them inside."

"Aw, you're no fun, Ron."

"Not before my Irish coffee I'm not. But I speak mostly from experience, Champ."

"You've been haunted?" The hopeful look made Burgundy want to lie and say yes. Very badly. But lies were no foundation on which to build a relationship. Unless you _wanted_ it to self destruct in a powder keg of scotch, crack cocaine, and poor life choices, of course.

"No, Champ, I've had a child. And now that you mention it, the two things are starting to sound eerily similar," Ron said with a nearly suppressed shiver. "Walter does occasionally sit in this one, obviously cursed, high-backed chair in the den for hours on end. Just giggling to himself. In the dark. For hours on end."

"Sounds to me like you only just got out of that madhouse on time. It's a wonder you and Veronica survived _this_ long with that sort of pure evil in the house."

"Oh, I expect it's all thanks to our long time maid. Ah yes, dutiful, kind, foolish Lupita. She took the brunt of it, seeing as Veronica and I were so often at work or out enjoying ourselves. Anywhere but home really. Any excuse."

"Sounds rough."

"I know," Burgundy agreed with an emphatic nod and a hearty sip from his honestly more 'Irish' than 'coffee' breakfast of choice.

"But this would be different, Ron," Champ insisted. Scrambled eggs completely forgotten and starting to cool on his plate.

"How?"

"It'd be ours, for starters."

"How?"

"Well... you've had a kid. You know how these kind of things work," the guy missing out on some pretty well fluffed eggs said with a well waggled eyebrow.

"Yeah, between Veronica and me, or any human that has a fertile womb and one that produces viable sperm. Not two old, barely functional, alcoholic, homosexual _men_ trying to hobble together some sort of life... together. Not unless you have a womb you haven't told me about," Ron finished with an eyebrow wiggle of his own. And another good mouthful of his biting cup of Irish Joe.

"I wish you wouldn't use that word, Ron. It makes my skin crawl." The shudder made it clear that the chef was being serious, so Burgundy decided asking for clarification would be prudent.

"Which one? Veronica? Because that's a fairly common na-"

"No, the 'h' word," Champ said as his face scrunched.

"Hobble? Because that's a fairly versatile word which I'm rather fond-"

"No: 'homosexual'," the grown man more mouthed than whispered.

"What's wrong with calling us 'homosexual'," Ron mouthed the word back the way that his eccentric egg ignorer had.

"That word was invented by the CIA during the Eleanor Roosevelt administration as a way of singling out the boys and girls who showed tendencies that were 'outside their stations'. Like boys who wanted to dance ballet, or girls who wanted to learn to read."

"Champ, what Eleanor Roosevelt administration?" Ron asked around another healthy swig of his bitter sweet, Irish-Columbian delight. "Wasn't _Franklin_ Roosevelt our president?"

"That's just what they _want_ you to think! But the woman was ruthless! Hear this: every school she ever visited on her 'husband's' campaign trail? Missing children. Every last one, Ron."

"What in the-"

"Oh yes, it's true alright. I read about it in the Midnight Star and you know that newsprint never lies."

"How could they? It's printed on paper!"

"Right? So, these kids she'd have abducted, these 'deviants', were mostly never seen again, but they were taken to a laboratory somewhere in Washington D.C. where the CIA's top psycho-babbelists experimented on them day and night to try and either weaponize their 'unnatural proclivities', or revert them back to 'healthy', 'proper', works of God."

Ron moved his non coffee clutching hand to lay atop Champ's when he realized it was trembling.  
"Wow. There is so much about this great country's history that I had no idea ever happened. Thank you for sharing with me that harrowing story that you read out of a tabloid newspaper. I know it was hard for you."

"Thanks, Ron. I actually feel a little better, getting that off my chest," the man with no mustache said as he blinked his eyes several times.

"I'm glad. But, uh, Champ, if not 'homosexual'," Ron mouthed the word once again, "then what?"

"Probably one of the good old fashion words that folks used to use before the influence of her evil took root in this great nation. Like 'fairy', or 'queer', or maybe even 'confirmed bachelor'."

"Or," Ron began with a snap, "maybe we could go with that new fangled word I've heard the hip kids using. Uh... 'gay'- yeah that's it. We could be gay!"

"I don't know, Ron. That'd make it sound like we're celebrating Christmas all year round, not like we share a life together. Not like we live and cook and make beautiful, beautiful love together. I think folks are already calling us 'those queers' around the water cooler at work, so we could always run with that?" Champ ended in a voice longing for approval.

"Well," said Ron before quaffing the last of his delicious, caffeinated start to the day, "I say we think on it and maybe make a decision after dinner. Well, _after_ after dinner." He suggested with a quick squeeze of his lover's hand. Where he'd forgotten he was still holding it, atop the kitchen island.

"You mean... '_after_' after dinner?" Champ asked. His eyes and mouth both going wide in a happy, excited smile.

"Yes. I think we both think straighter after a good, raunchy, role play filled roll in the hay. Wouldn't you say, my sweet, sweet, sports commentator?" The back of a hand Ron gentled down the side of Champ's face as he walked past to rinse out his mug made the shorter man's breath catch.  
Yep. The Burg still had it.

"Or we could skip work after the morning report and get back home in time to have ourselves a little 'afternoon delight', if you'd rather have the conversation sooner?"

"Champ, that would be completely unprofessional of us!" Ron all but snapped. But, when he saw the contrite dejection welling up in his boyfriend's eyes, he felt his own baby blues soften.  
With a soft smile, he walked the few feet back to his special person and coaxed him into a hug. "I suppose it wouldn't be unprofessional if we both fell terribly, terribly ill around lunch time and had to rely on each other's support just to stand as we hobbled out the door with a promise to 'have this bug under control by tomorrow'."

"You mean it, Ron? Do ya really mean it?" Asked the man who'd so eagerly come into his arms and snuggled his head against his burgundy vest front.

"You know I only lie on April 1st, the day of fools."

"And it's not even Super Bowl Sunday, so we're in the clear!"

"Yep. Now, what say we go show those ninnies down at the station how _real_ news gets reported?"

"I say it's going to be a whammy of a day!"

Ron smiled, even though he was pretty sure that hadn't answered his question. And that those eggs were going to end up in the trash sometime in the near future.  
He smiled because Champ was smiling and because it had been a while since he'd pulled the wool over corporate's eyes. Even longer since he'd done it for wholly selfish reasons. Then again, he thought with a happy grunt, his reasons were only half selfish. After all, he'd never have thought of it in the first place if Champ hadn't made the ardent suggestion himself.

Boy howdy was this gonna be one _hot_ roll in the hay.


	3. Brick's Morning

**Now let's see what a nearly average morning looks like for our favorite weatherman!**

Brick's life started out simply:  
On the streets.

Yep. Simple was Brick's middle name. _Legal_ middle name. As far as he knew.  
Or maybe it was his last name. Might explain why people were always calling him, "Simple Brick." At least, if they thought he was in the military anyway. Last name first and all.

Or maybe his last name was Tamland, like his employment papers said. People did occasionally call him that, down at the station. Even the boss, who was known to just out and yell at people from across a room, sometimes yelled for him by the name Tamland. Compelling evidence.

But no matter what some stuffy old piece of paper or 'the man' tried to tell him, he was undoubtedly Simple Brick and his name had without a doubt been fitting clear on through to the present day.  
Simple Brick the Weatherman. Living simply in spite of his fancy title. Though, all that was about to change in a **big** way. Whether he was ready for it or not.

Or, that's what a little bitty birdy had told him. Before it had eaten the cheeseburger right out of his pocket. Which had made him sad. Because that had been given to him by _the_ Burger King and was supposed to be his dinner for the next three days. And because going to sleep cold, wet, _and_ hungry was never as much fun as the cowboys made it sound.

Figuring it was about time to get started for the day, hungry, Simple Brick pulled himself out from the depths of his comfy pile of leaves and ignored the scream of a passing jogger as he let the brisk morning breeze blow the clean back into his suit and started off for work. Where they always had hot, bitter, black water to drink and plenty of miniature cakes with holes in the middle to fill the void that was his just-woke-up stomach.

"Hello, Bill!" Brick greeted as he passed the sidewalk cafe were the man he had years ago decided would this day be 'Bill' would forevermore sit this time of day.

"Lookin' good, my man!" The man with the big, fluffy dog laying by his feet said right back.

"Oh, you're just saying that because you're blind!" Brick assured as he kept up his casual I-have-a-job-I'm-almost-late-for pace.

"Hey, a compliment is a compliment, my man. Remember that! Could do you some good down the road!" The man said as he waggled a finger after the weatherman. His seeing eye dog woofing in resounding agreement.

Brick chuckled to himself as he hopped on the rear bumper of his morning ride. The bus driver thankfully either being his regular, or else someone who didn't check their rear view very often, because he got all the way to the studio corner and disembarked with a neat hop without any ear splitting screeches from the slam of a foot against the brake pedal. The brake pedal of a ten ton public transit vehicle whose city council didn't think brought in enough in bus fares to warrant replacing its ancient transmission. Nor brakes.  
He hated it when bus drivers flipped out like that. Especially when it all spiraled into a massive thirty car pile up and made half the city late for dinner.

Yeah, Nervous Nelly bus drivers were the _worst_.  
"Am I right, or am I right?" Brick asked of the grizzly man who often sat at the bus stop on the studio corner.

"You're crazy is what you are!" The man spat before going back to the amicable conversation Brick had accidentally, rudely interrupted. Between the bus stop man and the grizzled bus stop lady he was talking to. The bus stop man obviously not realizing that the grizzled lady was, in fact, a ghost and therefore invisible to most people. Which, in a weird turn of events, made the bus stop man look like he was actually talking to himself.

The thought made Brick giggle to himself as he walked through the front doors to the place that had been the closest thing to a home he'd ever had.  
There, everyone knew their own name, he knew some of theirs, and approximately seventeen people knew his. There were clean bathrooms, ceilings that had only a handful of cracks, unbroken floors, the occasional tissue box with a decorative cover, and even evidence that somebody had put the place there on purpose.

Eagerness in his stride, Brick walked straight over to the on set craft food table where everyone milled about and said 'hm' at least three times before picking out the exact same breakfast they chose every morning.  
Brick also did that. Since it was a sacred news station ritual and all.

Hm, hm, hm. Yes, the round, pink, hole-in-the-middle, spotted pastry always did wonders to ease the pre-breakfast hunger of Brick's-

...There _weren't_ any spotted pink ones. Brick 'hm'ed thrice more and then rechecked the entire table, but to his great horror, it was still missing his favorite breakfast- the one pastry he'd ever tried in his long, long news station career life was _missing_ and he didn't know what he was going to **do** and things were spiraling out of-

"Hey there, Branch!" Said a voice that usually sounded familiar to him but which, in that moment of profound loss and grief, only sounded like the death rattle of Death herself.  
"Now don't go gettin' all morose on us; I saved you yer favorite!"

Pooling the last fibers of his shattered will, Branch peeled his face off the unexpectedly sticky table where his head had somehow stuck itself, and looked in the direction of the inappropriately cheery voice.

"See?"

And he did see. And it was **glorious**. And so he asked the figure the only thing he could. "Are you God?"

"What?"

"Buddha?"

"No, Brick, I just saved you a donu-"

"Mr. Rogers?"

"No, it's me, Brick. Champ. Champ the sports commentator. Your friend who always wears _this_ cowboy hat? We've known each other for God knows how many years?"

"Champ saved me breakfast?" Brick asked. The mice in his head beginning to turn the flywheel of his mind once more. As the world began again to make even a little sense.

"Yes," the tall, tall, man holding in his bare hand a pink, spotted pastry that looked like it had spent the better part of fifteen minutes in Champ's grease dotted front shirt pocket said. "Yes, I, Champ, saved you, Brick, this delicious heart attack waiting to happen. 'Cause it's yer favorite and there was only one of 'em when I came in."

"You saved my- the whole- whole entire universe. You- and then- and I-"

"Whoa, slow down there pardner. Breathe," friend Champ said as he took a _really_ big breath. Which Brick felt himself powerless not to copy. "And enjoy your snack."

And as Champ handed over the wonderful, wonderful pocket pastry, Brick could swear he'd seen a bright, beautiful light shine in a glorious halo around the hump of his friend's giant hat.  
"Are you my mother?" The book title that forced its way out of Brick's pastry gnashing teeth.

"I'm pretty sure that's one of the only things it's not _possible_ for me to be, Brick. But I'm glad you like the donut," Champ said with a shiny smile. "Welp, good luck with the report! Ooh, and today's weather? Make it a real _whammy_," Champ said. Proving to Brick that not everyone was ignorant to the true powers of a network weatherman. For Brick did not only report the weather; he created it.

Or at least, that's what Ron had told him, and Ron didn't lie. Not to friend Brick anyway. Or to Champ. But to everyone else? Brick was under the assumption that the newscaster Ron Burgundy used up all of his truthfulness on his two favorite coworkers. That was why he was over by his news desk, telling a lighting grip that his own personal morning wiz smelled like lemonade and his evening loaf smelled like fresh baked bread.

Overhearing Ron's conversations always cracked Brick up. But, Brick knew he had a job to do soon, so he finished his breakfast before laughing out loud at the ridiculous fibbing. Not wanting to get crumbs all over his vest on accident. He didn't want people watching to think that he'd had to walk through a crumb storm to get there. Too many news watchers might get confused and walk outside to get some crumbs of their own and find no such shower. Then they might lose all faith in the weather report and carry an umbrella around with them for the rest of their life, even if it never rained ever again, even once.

Brick didn't want that for _anybody_, so he always made sure he was crumb free and report ready before the red light came on and the station director yelled very loudly-

"Quiet on set! We're live in 5, 4, 3, 2..."

Brick always wondered why it was that the station director never said '1', but it was quiet time by then and he figured she was a professional and probably had a good reason for it.  
Either that, or she always forgot the last number. Could happen to anybody.

In reverent silence, Brick watched as Ron sat at his news desk and gave the morning address. Opening with the most winningest smile Brick had ever _witnessed_, let alone seen. He didn't understand how all the crew didn't fall to their knees at the mere-  
Oh. No one else was there watching. Except the sound and camera portions of the crew. And Brick supposed they were used to it by now. And that he should be. Considering.  
But then he looked over and saw that Champ was just beginning to peel his knees, one by one, off the floor from where he'd been watching the action too.

Maybe it just took a real friend to properly appreciate the magic that was Ron Burgundy and his million dollar smile?

Huh, but weren't Champ and Ron more than friends these days? Weren't they _best_ friends now? Didn't they share everything, and I mean **everything** now? Like the guys joked about in the little boy's room? While pantomiming brushing their teeth with a really big toothbrush?

Right! Champ had mentioned a while ago that he and Ron were joined at the hip now, and how he'd finally gotten Ron to 'move in' with him. And that they were like an old married couple, nagging each other all hours of the day. And kissing each other all the time. For no reason other than because they could.

Maybe that's why Champ applauded as the 'on air' light turned off and Ron stood from his news desk. Because he could.  
Either way, it got Brick clapping too. Until a stage hand came and clipped his microphone on him and told him it was time for the weather.

Strangely enough, Champ often gave a whoop and a clap after Brick finished his report and made his exiting bow. Could be because he was excited that his sports report was up next, but Brick liked to think it was because his big hatted friend thought he'd done a good job with the weather.

"Nice job with the weather, Brick!" Said the Texas man as he walked to take his on air place and patted Brick's shoulder as he passed him. "Sounds like today's gonna be a real whammy alright!"

"Thanks, Champ," Brick said as he missed his tall friend's shoulder for a pat of his own. "Knock them all down for me!"

"That's 'knock 'em _dead_', Brick. And don't you worry, I will!"

And he did. He always did. Not caring what anyone else thought as he mispronounced no fewer than seven famous soccer player's names and insisted that all the sport was good for was getting half price cervezas at the local Mexican dive bars.

After the entire station finished with the morning report and was getting ready to wait in a ten minute line to use the restrooms all at the same time, Brick saw Ron and Champ wink at each other from where they were leaning casually against opposite set walls. Then he watched as the two started looking less and less happy, and more and more unhappy.  
Pretty soon, it looked like both of them were going to be sick. Doubling over and clutching their stomachs and rushing towards each other with a hand over their mouths.

"We're sorry, everyone!" Ron yelled from between his fingers. "I don't think I'll be able to do the after noon nor the evening reports today!" He caterwauled. Sounding like his insides were trying to crawl out his mouth.

"It's alright, I'm sure Chip is up to standing in for the sports report for the rest of the day," Champ said as he fanned himself with his beautiful cream colored hat.

"But, Chip doesn't know a lick about sports! And who am I going to get to replace you, Ron? On such short notice?!" The station manager yelled as Ron and Champ staggered past in a very 'exit' direction.

"Don't worry, Chip'll be perfect."

"Yeah, and I'm sure you'll think of something. Maybe Mary Sue from accounting can stand in?"

"For the afternoon and _evening_ reports? But she's never newscasted, Ron!" The manager shouted after the lumbering pair.

"Oh, yes she has, I've heard her myself. She's quite good too. Does a good impression of me. If I was fourteen. Or a woman," Ron assured as he and Champ pushed their way out the door and out of the studio. Maybe for the last time if their grimaces and guttural moaning were a sign of how close to death they were.

With that thought, Brick just knew he was going to have to follow their lead and skip the evening weather. He needed to check in on his friends and make sure they didn't end up belly up, in the great fishbowl of life.


	4. Erotic Historical Encounters

**If you need a little help understanding who the heck these historical figures are, I've included a little background info in the ending note! ;D**

"Well, we find ourselves alone at long last. A tête-à-tête with none other than _the_ Sitting Bull," Cha- The veteran Union Army soldier said as he reached out, hand moving with a tentative sort of confidence, and touched the other legend. A few fingers ghosting along one long braid.

"Lieutenant Colonel Custer, I was starting to think that the Sioux and your U.S. army would never come to an agreement. But, it turns out you white men _can_ be reasonable," the other man allowed. Watching the colonel's hand where it was twined around one of the dyed turkey feathers tied loosely into both of his black plaits.

"Once you called for this peace talk- this conference, how _couldn't_ I tell my forces to stand down? After all, all anyone on any side of something like this wants is for the fighting to end," Custer said as he twirled the feather around one finger. Barely believing the appendage hadn't already been severed from his hand.

"That is true. When your U.S. cavalry troops put up their guns and their swords, my Sioux cavalry did the same. Without hesitation." Which was exactly the way Sitting Bull moved forward and into his enemy's more than personal space.  
Without hesitation.

The colonel felt his eyes widen at the bold move and at the same time, he took in a steadying breath and remained calm. "Did they also un-nock their hunting tip arrows?" Custer nearly cringed when the tactician across from him, practically touching him chest to chest, narrowed his eyes.

"You know that my word has integrity; the arrows sit forgotten in their quivers."

When Sitting Bull didn't back away, Custer relaxed his diaphragm and drew his face up in a cocky grin. "So, now the great Sioux leader lets me question his word and live to tell the tale?"

"Who says you will survive this encounter?" Bull asked in an absolutely chilling voice. "When you leave this place, the old you will be no more and a new Colonel Custer shall control his forces."

"Say that again," the man in the navy hat asked. Entranced.

"And a new Colonel Custer shall control his forces," the Sioux fighter obliged. Voice exactly as it had been the first time he'd said it.

Finally, Custer found the nerve to move his hand to brush across the broad, textile covered shoulder of who history had almost recorded as his greatest and last enemy. In response, he felt an all but unfamiliar hand light upon one of his navy clothed ones.  
It made him **shiver**.  
"W-what're you doing?" He asked, cursing himself for the stutter.

"Counting coup?" Sitting Bull suggested. Pushing his face close and taking a subtle sniff of the colonel's perfume.

"No, I've seen you do that. And it's always from horseback," the normally overconfident soldier reasoned. Feeling almost himself as he hadn't in an off putting time.

"Questioning my word again? You are a brave man indeed, Custer." The way the last syllable rolled, the growl behind it, had the colonel biting his lip, just to keep from opening his mouth and embarrassing himself. Not though with a babble fueled by fear, but one fueled by sudden, unexpected, _strong_ **want**.  
No one, in his many years of living, fighting, and loving, had ever said his name quite like that.

"Aren't you going to do anything about it?" He asked. Issuing a challenge instead.

"Are you asking me to?" An obvious acceptance of said challenge.

"...Yes." The colonel admitted, against his better judgement. Word escaping on a whisper.

"In that case," Sitting Bull grabbed the shorter man by the front of his service jacket and forced him back a step, where the back of the colonel's knees hit something solid. He went down, but, to his surprise, only into the waiting embrace of a sturdy chair.  
Then, the great Sioux leader pulled just enough on the jacket front to situate the U.S. army man so he was perched right on the edge of the seat and Custer sat there, completely helpless to resist, as Bull flipped the hat off his brunet head. "So I can look you in the eyes while I remake you, Lieutenant Colonel Custer."

The man in the chair could do nothing as his most respected, _formidable_ enemy pushed a moccasined foot between his own booted ones and moved them farther apart.  
"What are you-"

"Shh," said Sitting Bull, moving one hand to cover Custer's mouth for just a moment.

The Colonel nodded and just watched, body and all of its senses _alive_ as the man who history had almost written as his and all of his forces' downfall moved; stepping closer than Custer had ever allowed another combatant. In a private setting or otherwise.  
In a blink, Burg- eh, _Bull's_ face was mere centimeters from Ch- _Custer's_, hovering there with an intense stare boring right into-

And the colonel felt his entire body jolt when something **hard** pushed up into his crotch.  
The seasoned, _hardened_ army commander couldn't hold in the gasp when the knee —it had to be Bull's knee— began to move rhythmically against the intimate bulge of his pants.

"Keep your eyes on me, Custer." Sitting Bull insisted when he tried to look down to check. "Let everything else in this world go."

And the poor lieutenant colonel had no chance to speak as his mouth was sealed by a pair of hot, famil- eh _strange_ lips. Then, the only thing he could get out when the Sioux eventually, **mercifully** released his: a guttural, tormented moan from somewhere deep, deep down. Where the trembling of his lower body met the flushing heat of his upper half and clashed like thunder.

"This is only the beginning," the colonel heard growled from teeth that were only _just_ not biting his earlobe. "I have more medicine where that came from; things you've never even **dreamt** of."

"Before we're through with this here peace conference, I'll have to show you a few things _you've_ never even-"

"Shh," hushed Sitting Bull, hand once again covering the colonel's mouth. "Sioux 'peace conference' are not like yours. This is only the first day. And it is _your_ day. Tomorrow..." he paused to adjust his footing, "is another story."

A bolt arced through Cha- _Custer_ then as that same knee dug into his growing package unexpectedly and when he managed to pull his head back from where he'd tossed it back in **pleasure**, Bull's eyes _burned_.  
As the army man breathed a few harsh lungfuls, he found the fingers of one hand were aching from where they'd gripped the side of the chair's seat through... everything, trying —and failing dismally— to ground him. Trying and failing to keep him from losing himself, in those fiery, blue-blue eyes.

"Are you ready for more, U.S. Army Lieutenant Colonel Custer?"

For a moment, all the mess of a man in the chair could do was stare up at his- at Sioux Coalition War Party Leader Sitting Bull and tremble. But as his body and mind begged him, _screamed_ at him to grab the man in front of him and pull him **close**, he managed to speak. Voice rough in the best sort of way.  
"I've never met an enemy I couldn't take."

"I'm afraid, Custer, that today, you've met your match," and with a half feral growl, the most famous Sioux in that whole, tragic war once again dug his fingers into that blue service coat front and all but threw the smaller colonel onto a nearby bed. One Custer had somehow completely forgotten was in that room.

Almost before he got out his shout of surprise, there was that same hand over his mouth and that soft 'shh' in his ear, and the man who'd been ready to never surrender- to proudly lay down his life for his country, found himself laying down in a completely different kind of surrender.

"_This_ is where your unmaking begins."

And the colonel **believed** it that time. Believed it when that mouth that he loved so very, _very_ much took his and told it what to do.  
Believed it with his entire, quivering spine when Sitting Bull did that thing with his knee in a completely different position. More on top the colonel than in front this time. Making it somehow feel even more intimate than it had before.

By then, both of them had a hand buried in the other's hair; both of them were breathing heavier and heavier; _both_ of them could feel the temperature of the modest, mid century bedroom rising, and both of them **loved** it.

And finally, as he'd known his lover eventually would, Ro- _Sitting Bull_ moved his hand from Custer's hair, down the white man's flushed face, slowly down across the expanse of his service jacketed chest, and slowly, **seductively** those last inches to the buttons of the high waisted blue pants.

"Say goodbye to the Custer you've known. While you have the chance."

"Goodbye-"

And for a moment, a glorious, _beautiful_ moment, the man who history would say had died that day swore that he saw God. Bathed in white light and surrounded by winged angels and the swirling galaxies of an endless cosmos and-

And then the doorbell rang.

**The two historical characters depicted here were written the way I thought Ron and Champ might see them. Ron and Champ grew up through the era of Western tv and movies and it would shock me if at least Champ wasn't ****_way_**** into things like Bonanza and real life old west history.**  
**Colonel Custer is among the most famous of army folks from around the civil war and is best known for his encounter against a Sioux coalition led, in part, by Sitting Bull, who himself is one of the most famous folks from that time period.**  
**The colonel died that day, on the battle field, and Sitting Bull led his forces to victory in what may have been the U.S. army's biggest defeat in the entire Sioux conflict.**


	5. The Unexpected Brick

**Being interrupted is almost never as fun as whatever you were interrupted ****_from_****. But, when Ron sees who rang, he can't stay mad for long.**

Ducking out of work had been even easier than Ron had thought it would. After that little bit of thespian gold, it had been lickety-split to get themselves home and each into something a little more... comfortable. The surprisingly flattering, period accurate costumes Champ had cut, stitched, and on one memorable occasion, _woven_ for them being switched out for their work clothes as soon as they had them out.

With the decent quality, curled, brunet wig on straight, Ron had barely recognized his lover. Especially under that non-ten-gallon hat brim.

From there it had been moments before the two found themselves in the bedroom, trading lines and facing off. Almost as if the old colonel's last stand was taking place for a second time. Only, this time, with far fewer casualties and absolutely no broken treaties.

Things were going great. Champ was like putty in his hands, and all that idol worship sparkling in the shorter man's eyes was doing _wonders_ for Ron's ego. Which just so happened to be directly connected to his-

And then the doorbell rang.

At **exactly** the wrong moment too, because Ron was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt that Champ had been measly _seconds_ from-

And with a second ring, _all_ the excitement drained right out of... both of them.  
So, as Ron reluctantly scraped himself off his rudely interrupted love session, he straightened his tunic and promised, "I will finish you later, Colonel. On that, you have my word."

The dazed, almost dopey smile he got was reassurance enough, so with a quick check to make sure he was decent, Ron Burgundy went to check who in the name of all that is holy had rung their doorbell in the middle of any decent person's workday.

"Whatever vacuum cleaner it is you're selling, we already own it!" He yelled as he yanked the door open. Hoping to discourage whatever scum had dared to interrupt his 'special' time with his special person; his afternoon delight.

"Hello, Ron. My, aren't you looking different today?"

"Brick?" He asked in pure puzzlement.

"Yes. It is I. Brick," the weatherman assured with a sharp snap of his heels.

"At ease," Ron allowed with a wave of one hand. "Uh, not that it isn't good to see you, Brick, but why the hell are you darkening our door in the middle of the news day?" Asked with all the authority due a network newscaster over all his subordinates.

"Who's there? Who's at the door, Ron?" Came an inquest from the open bedroom door. Back where Burgundy wished he still was. Squished on top of his warm, loving, compassionate-  
"Is it the census?! Because I told them to never come 'round here again unless they wanted to go home with half their brains in their grubby little-"

"No, Champ, it's Brick!" The man in the expertly recreated, mid nineteenth century, Sioux war outfit hollered back into his shared house.

"...Why?" Came the responding question.

"Yes, Brick, why indeed?" Ron asked, turning back to their visitor.

"I have brought you the pink liquid," said visitor said, pulling something vaguely bottle shaped from a front pocket.

"'Pink liquid'?" Ron found himself blurting, befuddled beyond belief.

"Pepto-Bismol?" Asked a bewildered Champ, who chose that to be his introduction as he poked his entire body out of the foyer and into the doorway.

"What- Wait. How did you even find us?" Ron demanded of Brick as he tried not to be flustered by the up close reminder of what he'd so rudely been pulled away from. Or rather, _who_ he'd been so rudely, **maddeningly** pulled _off_ of.

"Remember in that alternate timeline when you had a housewarming party when you moved in here together?" Brick asked. Staring intently at the little bottle full of pink liquid he was holding out in front of himself. Like it might explode. Or maybe like he was offering an extremely revered person a gift.

"No, Brick, no one remembers alternate timelines; it's called science _fiction_ for a reason!" Ron said with a stamp of one moccasined foot.

"Yeah," Champ agreed, "buncha gobbledygook created by Nazi scientists during the-"

"Nuh-uh," interrupted Brick, "It's existed longer than that," he said with a chuckle and shake of his head. Then, when no one countered his point, he added a smile.  
"Well, _I_ was invited to that party, so I know where you live. Is your living room still full of sand?"

"Sand? Like from the beach?"

"Yes, Ron," Brick said in a very 'of, course, where else?' sort of way. "It was a Florida Keys flavored party. Loved the alligator soup, Champ."

"Oh, thank you, Brick. It was my pleas-"

"No, no, don't encourage him, Champ. Remember? 'Alternate timeline'?" Ron said as he finally took pity on the Brick standing outside and accepted the thoughtful, though unnecessary, gift.

"Oh, right. Uh, sorry, Brick, but I've never cooked alligator in my life. Never even been to Florida," Champ informed, sounding rather deflated.

"Well, thank you for the Pepto-Bismol, Brick, but isn't it about time you toddled off back home?" Ron asked in the least 'get off my porch' tone he could.

"Home?" The only word Brick squeaked out.

"Yeah, the place you hang your hat?" Champ said, pointing at his ten-gallon example on their hatrack by the door. Put there specifically for that hat.

"I don't- hats aren't- don't like my- t-try to eat my head," Brick said, stumbling over his words as his eyes went big.

"No, Brick, what Champ means is that home is where you go when you're done with work and want to relax and maybe go to sleep for the night. Where you eat dinner. And breakfast," Ron explained.

"But..." started a confused Brick, "those are all different places."

"What? No, _home_, Brick. Everyone has a home," insisted Champ. Putting an arm around Ron's back to emphasize his assertion.

"Oh, right!" Said Ron with a nod of thanks to his boyfriend. "Chani! What about Chani? Where does your wife live, Brick?"

"Seattle sometimes. Candyland othertimes," the weatherman said, quite matter of factly.

"You mean you don't live _together_?" Asked Champ, arm tightening around Ron's back, like a lifeline.

"We're together every night in our dreams," Brick informed with a small smile. "She bakes pie and I bring the turkey and stuffing."

"To your dreams?" Ron asked. Eyebrows almost touching the black wig he'd all but forgotten he was wearing.

"It's a midnight potluck. We do it at least once a week."

The matter of fact delivery had Ron unsure whether he should be happy for his friend and his friend's wife, or very, _very_ sad.

Then Brick's stomach growled. And Ron knew exactly how to feel. And what to say.

"Uh, say, Brick, When was the last 'potluck' you and Chani had?"

"Our next one is tomorrow night. This time I'm bringing sweet potato casserole and sauerkraut salad."

"In separate Tupperware I hope," Champ said with a shudder. One Ron could feel where he was practically being hugged by the man. The man still dressed as the historical figure Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer. Hugging Sitting Bull in their open front door.

Ron, being pretty sure it was a good time to _not_ be seen by the neighbors, made a judgment call and decided slamming the door in Brick's face would definitely be one of the worse decisions of his life.  
So instead, he leaned in close to his colonel's ear and asked his lover a question. "You still want a kid?"

With a shiver, Champ leaned an intimate amount more of his weight into Ron's side and turned his head to whisper into the wig covered ear. "Yes, more than anything, Ron."

"In that case, congratulations, Champ. You're a father now," Ron said with a Brickward sweep of one arm.

"Huh?" Came the noise of confusion from both the weatherman and the sports commentator.

"You're hungry, right, Brick?" Ron asked, with a small smirk.

"Oh yes, very much so," Brick admitted with a downcast sort of acceptance.

"And you don't have a place you go back to at night, right? Nothing like Champ's house here, right?" Ron asked in a leading way.

"No, I've _never_\- this is nicer than anything in- my dreams aren't this nice," Brick insisted with a shake of his head.

"Well, we happen to have an extra bedroom and a live-in, world class cook who's tired of cooking for only two," Ron said, putting his own arm around Champ's back. Crisscrossing their limbs oh-so comfortably.

"Everything he's said is _true_, Brick," Champ insisted with a face that was brightening by the second. Aglow with paternal instincts kicked off by the opportunity standing right there on their porch.

"Well, what do you say, Brick? Want to live under Champ's roof, eat his food, be eternally ungrateful for all the sacrifices he makes for you and overall make his life a living-"

"Heaven?" Champ cut in. "I think you just described heaven," he said with a wistful sigh.

"Sure. Why not? What he said." Ron allowed with a perplexed twitch of his mustache.

"You mean, I'd get to live in _heaven_?" Brick asked with eyes that shone. "With my best friends?"

"If you'd like to," Champ said with an encouraging nod.

"Oh, I _would_. I would like that very much," Brick insisted with a matching nod. And wring of the hands.

"In that case, welcome home, Brick," Ron said with a warm 'get inside before the neighbors see us dressed like this' smile.

"Welcome to the family, Brick," Champ said with more happiness than Ron had thought possible.  
Then, the two broke apart to make way for their equally ecstatic guest.

"Say, Brick, if you already knew where my house is, how come it took ya till now to get here?" Champ asked as they ushered their friend through the door and in a kitchenly direction.

"Oh, it took a while to find enough change on the sidewalk for the stomach potion," Brick explained.

"Oh. Well, thanks a bunch for that. I'm feelin' better already!" Champ assured.

To which, Brick stopped in the middle of his stride, one foot off the ground and gave Champ the most aghast expression Ron thought he'd ever seen on a human face.

"Brick?" Ron prompted.

"I- that's- The potion works even better than I thought." Brick's shocked face spoke in a way that compelled an answer.

"The miracles of modern medicine," Champ said with an uncomfortable shake of the unopened bottle. To which, Branch nodded. In awe.

Then, soon as the shock began to wear off, they continued toward the kitchen, all three walking side by side with their guest in the middle.  
After a few more steps, said guest opened his mouth to speak again. "It sure is a good thing I found that giant bird bath full of pennies!"

At that, Ron and Champ glanced at each other across the top of Brick's head and _smiled_.

Champ was probably right. Not about the whole 'heaven' thing, but being a father for a second time might just not be so bad as it sounded. At least, so long as it made Champ that **happy**.

Besides, Brick needed a place to stay and they were all already besties. So, yeah, this whole thing was going to go swimmingly. Ron could feel it in his bones.  
And it was all going to start with a delicious, home cooked, ever so slightly early dinner. Courtesy the new, first time dad of the house.


End file.
